A Deal With the Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 2)

Slips of paper are passed around, followed by stubby pencils. My heart pounds in my ears and I stare at my hands. You’d think that with the decision in my hands, it would be a no-brainer. Reyn, obviously. But if I write his name down, if I choose him, Emory will know. Everyone will know. Why would I pick the guy who’d done irreparable damage to me as my partner in this? But my brother had tossed us together over and over again, so could he really be surprised?

“Okay, Devils, let’s give the girls a few minutes to make their decisions. You’ll be notified of your meet-up time and partner by our usual methods of communication.”

“Wait, wait. I think I need to campaign a little here,” Sebastian says, a wolfish grin on his lips. “For the record, my favorite song is The Devil Went Down on Georgia.” He gives Georgia a lewd wink.

All eyes shift to Georgia, and I think we’re all expecting her to blush or brush him off. Sebastian flirts with her and Caroline pretty indiscriminately, and it’s obvious that it flusters them—which I suspect is part of the draw. But to everyone’s surprise, Georgia simply smiles back and openly writes “Bass” on her slip. Sebastian is giving her a look full of raised eyebrows when she drops it into the box.

“Put up or shut up, Bass,” she says, flouncing gracefully from the room with the other guys.

He mutters a pleased, “Good shit,” and follows them out.

I feel sick with nerves, watching each girl consider the name of the Devil they want on their paper. Aside from Aubrey who, let’s face it, is putting my brother’s name down, any of these girls could choose Reyn and be paired with him without a second thought from Emory.

Afton stands and holds up her slip, announcing, “I’ve put down Tyson, so hands off. He’s the only other Devil involved in a long-term relationship.”

I want to point out that her boyfriend is also in a long-term relationship—with his wife—but I’m actually a little scared of Afton and don’t want her to kick my ass. Plus, she’s right. It gives Tyson an out which I think he’d appreciate.

Elana taps the pencil against her chin as though she’s deep in thought, which seems unlikely, but soon writes a name in loopy cursive. I peer over, trying to catch a look, but she quickly folds it over. Caroline looks a little pale. I’m not sure how many boys she’s dated—if she ever has. She’s always been notoriously focused on her academics. Math geek, everyone calls her, even though she’s incredibly pretty. For a moment, I think that this could be the rite that breaks her, but eventually she writes down a name and turns it in.

She leaves looking assured and determined.

That means I’m last.

I know in my heart whose name I need to write down on the slip of paper. Not need—want. The thought of putting anyone else down is physically repulsive to me. And seriously, screw my brother. Screw the rules. Screw everything.

For the first time, even if it’s in secret, I write Reyn’s name down and claim him for my own.

26

Reyn

I have a physical reaction when I see the black envelope taped to the inside of my locker. I know Vandy had to have written down my name, that she’s got to be willing to take the risk of Emory figuring out what was going on with us, because any other option—for her or me—doesn’t sit right. It’s a relief to have that confidence. I don’t want another guy touching her any more than she probably wants another girl touching me.

That, we’re in agreement about.

But I open the envelope anyway, checking for the time of our date in the Stairway.

Loyalty to a collective many is creditable. Now you must prove your loyalty to one. We form our wicked chains with the links of flesh and temptation.

Meet Miss Afton Cross in the Stairway to Hell at 7p.m. A Devil is a gentleman, and a gentleman does not leave a lady waiting or wanting.

“To live and burn in everlasting fire,

So I might have your company in hell”

Elevatio Infernum

Afton Cross?

I skim the front, eyes jerking up and glancing down the hall. Emory’s leaning against the wall, tucking a piece of hair behind Aubrey’s ear. I glance back at the name on the card again.

AFTON CROSS?

What the motherfucking fuck?

The envelope burns in my pocket all day, as does the question. Through lunch, I keep shooting sharp looks at Vandy, but she just smiles back at me, like nothing is amiss. I wait until right before practice, as Emory laces up his football pants, to hold up the card and say, “Afton? Seriously?”

I deserve an Academy Award for my stunning portrayal of Man Who Isn’t About To Fuck Some Shit Up.